


Rest

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Mòrag tries to pull an all-nighter; Brighid won't allow it.





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> all-nighters aren't good for you!! 
> 
> the song used here is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCT0NUNUa6s&index=4).

For the Special Inquisitor, losing sleep isn’t a terribly uncommon occurrence. Mòrag is well aware of the precious value of a well-rested mind, of course. She knows her performance suffers when she’s tired and unable to focus.

But the work sometimes catches up far too quickly and— just one night would be fine, perhaps, when nothing else of particular urgency is happening.

“It’s been twenty eight hours,” Brighid announces, never once looking up from the book she’s reading.

“You’ve been counting?” Mòrag absentmindedly asks. She scratches her head, hunched over the fine print of one page of dozens, a thick stack of paperwork that needs to be sorted through.

It’s boring, it’s tedious, and it’s a pain in the ass to deal with. Better to get through with all of it in one fell swoop.

“Unless you took a nap while I slept. Don’t lie to me, Lady Mòrag. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“… Then, no, I haven’t.”

“But you took a break, at least?”

“To stretch my legs and get food, yes.”

“But not enough.”

Mòrag simply presses her lips together in a thin line, realizing she’d been reading the same line over and over again. Something about a new insurance policy to be instated, in light of the recent events involving the water tower. There’s… a _lot_ of money being involved.

Then she’ll need to meet with the council that’s currently acting in place of Dughall’s absence. Then she’ll need to get through more paperwork. Normally, she wouldn’t even be involved in such menial tasks, but her personal involvement in the incident unfortunately means otherwise.

She feels the headache pounding at the insides of her skull.

“Lady Mòrag.”

“I’ll be fine, Brighid.”

“Fatigue is a silent killer…”

Coffee and tea can only help so much. If she pretends to focus hard enough, then she can pretend that she’s fully alert. Such is the life of a Special Inquisitor. But Mòrag always knew the job wouldn’t be an easy one, and now she can more or less weather her way through the dull parts of the occupation that involves things like… insurance policies. And all the paperwork that comes with insurance policies.

She swallows back a yawn. Brighid notices, and puts down her book.

“Lady Mòrag.”

“I’ll be fine, Brighid.”

“You already said that.” Brighid walks over to the bed and sits, patting the sheets loudly enough for Mòrag to hear. “Would you come here, just for a moment?”

“I know what you’re planning,” she dryly says.

“You aren’t doing your temperament any favors, either.”

“Apologies.” Mòrag hesitates. She’d still been reading the same line over and over again, and she isn’t even sure what it says. Her head is a jumbled mess of all that fine print— bureaucracy is absolutely _grotesque_ , she decides. Her talents lie in the field, not behind a desk.

Before she knows it, she’s standing up and moving to sit beside Brighid, allowing her Blade to wrap her arms around her and pull her half onto her lap.

Mòrag stares up at the ceiling as the flames lick against her chest and sleeves.

“I won’t allow you to work yourself to death,” Brighid murmurs, resting a warm hand upon the side of her face. Mòrag unconsciously leans into the touch, still refusing to close her eyes. Her ether is a soothing balm upon her headache. 

“You’re exaggerating. I’m much hardier than that.”

“Twenty eight hours could easily become thirty, then thirty two, then thirty four…”

“Yes, I get the idea.”

Brighid is humming now, the tune hauntingly familiar and lulling Mòrag’s guard down. She relaxes in her arms, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.

“I taught you that song,” Mòrag says, somewhere between the temptation of yawning and her mild curiosity. Brighid nods, carding fingers through her hair.

Once, many centuries ago, the nations of Alrest had had their own unique languages. Things are different now, of course, with their intertwined economies and frequent travel between the Titans. The old Ardainian language had been phased out before Brighid had even filled more than an entry in her journal, but vestiges remain passed down.

She’s thinking of the song now, rather than all that horrible paperwork. Studying that old language had been genuinely fascinating, and she wishes she could do that all over again instead of dealing with insurance policies for water towers. Mòrag hums along, nestling close against Brighid.

 _"Gur ann a-raoir a chuala mi,_ ” Brighid softly sings, rhythmically stroking her hair. _”Mo ghaol a bhith ri buachailleachd…”_

“The paperwork could wait a little longer, couldn’t it?” Mòrag yawns, allowing her eyelids to sink down, heavy.

“You do have a bad habit of pushing yourself beyond your limits, at times.”

“Don’t stop singing, please.”

_”’S ged fhuair thu ’n iomall na buaile mi,”_

_"A ghaoil, leig dhachaigh mar fhuair thu mi,”_ Mòrag finishes, slightly off-tune in her waning consciousness.

“Get some rest, Lady Mòrag.”

“No, not yet…” But she’s steadily and surely drifting off, by now. Brighid wraps her arms around her once more and kisses the corner of her mouth. She quietly finishes the rest of the song, even after Mòrag falls into a deep slumber.


End file.
